


Winter Solstice

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Kings, Action
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2006-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-23 06:12:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3757466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hurt and confused, a young elf runs away from home after a series of troubling events, not knowing that deadly danger awaits him… Characters: Legolas, Thranduil, OC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Runaway

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

_A/N : This story was written out of a severe bout of snow-longing and as a Christmas present for my readers. I would not have been able to post it without the help of two wonderful people who were willing to beta it shortly before Christmas, so I want to give a big THANK YOU to Niriel Raina and Imbecamiel! ((hugs))   
I hope you enjoy, comments and constructive criticism are always very welcome! :)_

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_Additional A/N : Please note that the events in this story take place about 1104 T.A., when Thranduil and the wood-elves still lived in the Mountains of Mirkwood and not in the caverns by the Forest River in the North-East. I assume that it took quite some time to create those caverns or make them habitable. I have named the settlement in the Mountains of Mirkwood the 'Valley of the Deep Roots' (Imrath-e-Thynd-Nuir) and when I refer to the 'Palace' in this story I am speaking of Thranduil's and Legolas' home in that valley, which I imagine to be built half on the ground, half into the fir trees, with a large garden around it. That the settlement was positioned in a valley is not my idea - the Thain's Book mentions that "Oropher (...) who was then the king of the Wood-elves, lived in the glens of the Emyn Duir" (Emyn Duir is the name for the Mountains of Mirkwood before Dol Guldur was erected)._

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**Chapter One: Runaway**

Winter had come early this year and it had already been long and hard. The ground was frozen and covered by a white blanket, and the branches of the bare trees creaked and moaned under their load of snow. An icy cold, biting wind blew down from the Misty Mountains, whirling up snowflakes and driving them over the ground like wisps of mist. 

Deep inside the forest, the force of the wind was partly broken by the mighty trunks of gnarled old trees and their entwining and interwoven branches. In spite of the white pureness of the snow, shadows seemed to linger under the branches and cling to the trees as if they had a life of their own. 

Far away on the western horizon the sun was setting, but the day had been so cloudy and grey that it made almost no difference in this world of twilight. Deep silence reigned here, as all sounds were muffled by the snow and all creatures had long since sought refuge from the cold. All creatures save one. 

A lonely figure was moving between the trees, its steps slow and unsteady. The face and upper body of the being were hidden beneath a cloak that seemed to be far too short, and it had wrapped its arms tightly around itself, as if to conserve warmth. The figure did not sink into the snow, leaving almost no traces behind, and in spite of its unsteady gait it moved soundlessly. 

The elf - for an elf it was - slowed even more and looked around for a moment, noticing that snowflakes had begun to fall lazily from the sky and adjusting his direction slightly. He had been moving through this white and grey world for hours, and he was tired. He knew that he had to move faster if he wanted to survive, but the cold that was creeping into his limbs made it difficult to keep moving at all. 

The frosty air seemed to burn his lungs and made his eyes sting. His clothes were far from adequate for this kind of weather, but then, they had never needed to be. He had never suffered from the cold before, and he had never been wounded so severely. The wet warmth beneath the fingers he held pressed tightly against his side told him that the deep gashes there were still seeping blood, in spite of the makeshift bandage he had used half his cloak for. 

He had to find some kind of shelter before he could succumb to the cold or the blood loss, and before his pursuer caught up with him. Of course it was all his own fault. Everything that had happened to him only showed what a failure he truly was and how far he was from being a warrior or ever getting to be one. No warrior would ever have been so careless, and no warrior would have run away instead of facing his problems. 

For one moment, the elf found himself wishing that all this was only a bad dream, a nightmare that he could simply wake up from, but he doubted that a nightmare could hurt so much. He had forfeited all the love that had previously been bestowed on him; he was alone and he would very likely die before the next dawn. It was probably no more than he deserved. 

The young elf pressed his lips together tightly and trudged on, shivering when a cold gust of wind hit him right in the face, blowing the hood of his cloak back on his shoulders. Snowflakes were driven against his face, feeling like tiny needles on his skin. He could only hope that the snow was not about to turn into hail. He drew the hood back over his head and low over his face, as if trying to hide from the wind and the cold. 

While he was still struggling to get some long golden strands of hair back into the hood, the elf felt the eyes of the predator upon him once more. He did not turn or even look back, but his fingers let go of the hood and moved down to the handle of the elven dagger in his belt, the only weapon he still had left, thanks to his own folly. 

The beast had been following him for hours now, sometimes coming closer, sometimes keeping a considerable distance, and from time to time even flanking him, trailing him as if they were bound together by a strange fate. In a way, they were. They had both wounded each other in the creature's previous attack, and they were both fighting to survive. 

The beast was driven both by its raging hunger and by instinctive hate, and the elf knew that it would die soon if it did not manage to kill some prey to feed on. Once the creature must have been formidable, a large warg with mighty fangs that might have been the leader of an entire pack. Now it was nothing more but a lean grey shadow that could barely be seen in the twilight beneath the trees, a shadow with blood-shot eyes that looked much more like a skeleton than a living creature. 

So far the warg had neither attacked again, nor had he left, but the elf knew that it was only a matter of time until hunger drove it into action. The only thing that had saved him so far was that the beast, too, was weakened, and hesitant to risk its life in another attack. So the warg simply followed and watched, waiting for his prey to make a mistake, a wrong step, or show any signs of weakness. 

The elf was quite sure that the smell of his blood must be driving the warg crazy, and it would probably start attracting other wolves or spiders as well if he did not manage to get out of the open soon. In his current condition he could not risk walking through the trees, and neither could he just climb up a tree and wait until the warg simply collapsed from hunger. He would very probably die from the cold long before the wolf stopped breathing. 

He had to remain on the ground and find a shelter where he could light a fire and warm himself, and which would also provide at least some kind of protection from any predators. The elf knew such a place, but he was not sure whether the warg would allow him to get there. The strong feeling of being watched by hungry eyes slowly subsided, and the elf loosened his grip on the handle of his knife. 

A piercing, sinister howl cut through the air behind him, making the young elf shiver. He had only been in a real fight once in his young life, and then he had failed. He had never before felt so alone or so far from the safety and love he had known. There was nothing he could rely on now but his training and what was left of his strength and right now, that did not seem to be much. 

Thinking back to the life and the people he had left behind, Legolas wondered whether they would ever learn of his fate. Painful longing rose deep inside the young elf's chest as he thought of his father, and he wished with all his heart that he had never left his home, though he still was not able to forget the way Thranduil had looked at him just before he had decided to run away. 

He had seen a stern king then, not a loving father, and he was not sure that he would be able to bear that look of anger and disappointment again. Thranduil had never before looked at him in such a way, and he had not even spoken a word. 

The young elf drew a deep, shuddering breath, trying his best to ignore the howls, the pain, and the cold. He was only paying the price for his own mistakes. It was almost impossible to believe that all of it had begun only a week and a half ago, with a fateful decision which Legolas had come to rue deeply. 

\----------

What happened back then had been long in coming, since Legolas had already been bristling with anger at a perceived injustice for a considerable time. Like all elves his age who were striving to be warriors, Legolas had spent the last years with long and arduous hours of training under the tutelage of experienced instructors, a training he had successfully completed almost one year ago. Unlike all other elves his age however, only Legolas had never been allowed to join one of the patrols that defended their realm against the growing shadows after completing his training. 

At first he had been puzzled by that, since he had excelled in all disciplines, but it had not taken him long to realize that the instructors and the captains of the patrols only followed their king's -his father's - orders. He had tried to talk to his father about it, but Thranduil had refused to discuss the reasons for his decision and had only once again asked - or rather, ordered - him to be patient and wait a while longer.

As Legolas had no natural inclination to be patient, this had been hard to bear, especially as all his friends had already been on several patrols by that time and he had not even been able to explain to them why he was never allowed to join them or head out with a patrol on his own. 

Legolas was well aware that he was not only a soon-to-be warrior, but also a prince of his people, and he not only wanted to show that he could fulfil his duty just like anyone else, but was also eager to be out there and defend his realm, as he had seen his father do so often before. In spite of his youth, Legolas had already a strong sense of responsibility, and he could not understand why he was not allowed to do what he was born for. 

It hurt to be excluded in such a manner without even knowing why, and he was beginning to feel more and more useless and superfluous. It hurt even more that the current situation was his own father's doing, and it also stung Legolas' pride. Legolas and his father had always had a loving, if sometimes challenging relationship, but after the young elf had been trapped inside the Palace in Imrath-e-Thynd-Nuir ((Valley of the Deep Roots)) for months and had repeatedly watched elves he had trained with come back from various patrols injured, weary, or not at all, the situation had become more and more unbearable and Legolas began to suspect that Thranduil did not trust in his abilities for some reason and did not want him to know about it.

Angry and confused, Legolas finally decided to show his father that he was just as able as any other of the freshly-backed young warriors and find a way to leave the settlement in the valley with a patrol even without Thranduil's blessing. It took some time of planning, but he finally managed to find a way to sneak out of the heavily guarded Palace right at the same time when a patrol was scheduled to leave the settlement and head out into the forest. 

Clothed as a warrior and with his hood drawn low over his face it had been now problem to pass through the settlement without being recognized. Legolas had then joined the departing patrol, lying to Hebion, the captain of the patrol, for all he was worth and telling him that he had gained his father's permission to do so. Since Hebion had been one of his instructors before, Legolas had been able to finally convince him. 

The mere fact that he needed his father's permission while everyone else did not, as if he was still a child, made Legolas angry enough to go through with his plan without having any qualms about it. Little had he known on that day a week and a half ago how disastrous his decision would prove to be, not only for him, but for others as well. Only a short time later everything had begun to go completely wrong. 

Two days away from Imrath-e-Thynd-Nuir, the patrol of seven elves had come across a small human settlement beleaguered by a pack of wolves, which was led by some wargs, and a group of spiders, which had seemingly left their usual hunting grounds in order to search for prey, which had become scarce due to the lingering cold. The humans were in the minority and their situation was dire, especially since none of them seemed to be warriors.

The wood-elves were not very fond of humans, both because of grudges of the past and because many of them were woodcutters, but they would also not stand by idly and watch them being slaughtered by a foe common to both races. So Hebion had decided to come to the aid of the humans and join them in their desperate fight against the hated creatures. 

Legolas, who had never expected to be thrown into his first fight after only two days of patrol, had been thoroughly frightened but also determined to do his best, following the example of the more experienced warriors and clinging to everything he had been taught in his training. After a bloody battle, elves and humans emerged victorious from the fight, but to his dismay Legolas had become aware that only four out of seven elves had survived, and more than half of the human settlers had fallen. 

For Legolas, the many losses and the sudden experience of being thrown into such carnage had been hard to come to terms with, and he began asking himself whether the battle might have gone differently if the elven warriors had not had to look out for an inexperienced young elf in their midst, who had acted against all orders by joining them. 

Not wanting to intrude on the grief of the other elves, some of whom had known their fallen comrades for centuries, Legolas had stayed silent and simply done what he had been told to do. A short time later, after burning the dead, the elves had escorted the surviving humans to a village a short distance away and then four weary elves had set out to slowly make their way back to Imrath-e-Thynd-Nuir. 

The Legolas who returned with the decimated patrol had been quiet and subdued and very different from the determined young elf who had stolen out of the Palace some days earlier. After their arrival they had immediately been called to the king's study, and when the captain was done relating the events of the last days, Thranduil had taken the duty of informing the relatives of the fallen elves on himself and sent the members of the patrol away to get some rest, ordering only Legolas to stay behind. 

For a long time, the king had simply stood there staring at him, various emotions swirling in his eyes, which Legolas was unable to discern. Among other things, the young elf had read anger in those piercing eyes, and after trying to meet the stern gaze as long as he could Legolas was suddenly convinced that all his worries had been justifiable and his father and everyone else did indeed blame him for the deaths of the three warriors. 

Unable to bear that gaze any longer or face the accusations that undoubtedly would come next, Legolas had turned and fled the room without looking back or even closing the door behind him. Feeling heartsick and shaken, the young elf had run to his chambers and locked the door behind him. 

He had collapsed onto his bed and sat there unmoving until deep in the night, trying desperately to make sense of everything that had happened. He had felt like crying, but the tears did not come. His father had been right to doubt him all along. He had not been ready to join a patrol, and now through his disobedience and incompetence he was responsible for the deaths of three warriors. 

Not only that, but he had also lost his father's trust, his regard, and perhaps also his love. Legolas had finally given in to the crushing weight of guilt, despair, and pain, curling up on his bed with his hands balled into fists. Still there had been no tears, but there had also been no reprieve from the whirling maelstrom of his feelings or the painful thoughts that seemed to chase each other in an endless chain in his mind. 

All peace and all confidence he had ever felt seemed to be shattered beyond repair, just as the love and respect he had once been given, and he kept seeing the faces of dead elves and dead humans and the flames of burning pyres in his head over and over again. He lay there shaking, fighting against inner demons he had never known to exist, until, a seemingly endless time later, he realized that there was no escape and no chance to win that fight. The pain only grew, and suddenly he knew that there was no place here for him any longer. 

The old Legolas had been at home here, but no one would want to have what he had become. Coming to a decision, the young elf rose slowly. With his insight, the inner turmoil had ceased, and he felt strangely empty. Mechanically, he cleaned himself and changed into fresh clothes. Grabbing his weapons and what was left of his provisions, he unlocked the door, knowing that it was useless to lock it anyway - no one intended to come for him. 

Afterwards he left the room through the balcony door, quickly and expertly lowering himself into the surrounding garden. He had known ways to sneak out of the Palace without using the gates since he had been a child, and so he managed to leave his home a second time without anyone knowing about it. 

\----------

Legolas stumbled, fighting to keep his balance and cursing his inattentiveness. He held his breath for a moment, but there was no sound of paws on crusted snow and the warg had stopped howling some time ago. The beast was still waiting. The young elf breathed a sigh of relief, knowing only too well that another blunder like that could cause the starving creature to attack him. 

He tried once again to push wayward strands of hair that fallen into his face at his sudden movement back under the hood, wishing that he had not decided to loosen the warrior braids. All he needed right now were some loose strands of hair obscuring his sight while he tried to fight for his life against a ravenous warg. 

But then, he had done everything wrong from the beginning. He should have tried to speak to someone, like the head healer of Imrath-e-Thynd-Nuir, who had become as close to him as an uncle over the years. He should have stayed, facing the punishment he deserved, whatever it might be. But instead he had run away like a coward, and now he would very likely die for it without being able to even apologize to the ones he had wronged. 

No warrior would ever flee from the consequences of his actions. His father never did. Legolas could not understand any longer how he could ever have made himself believe that he was destined to be a warrior. Perhaps there was at least some kind of poetic justice in his dying by the fangs of a hungry wolf, like the dead warriors had done, but it would not bring them back. 

His encounter with the warg had only proven to Legolas once again how totally useless he was as a warrior. He had been walking on the ground, lost in dark thoughts and not paying any attention to his surroundings, behaving as if he was in the Palace garden instead of a hostile forest. He had become aware of the warning whispers of the trees at the last possible moment, and had only been able to raise his bow in an instinctive move to defend himself when a shadow with gaping fangs had already flown through the air towards him. 

The terrifying fangs had snapped shut only inches from his face, closing around the wooden bow instead of his neck. The bow had splintered under the pressure, breaking into several pieces. The wolf had howled with rage and the pain of sharp wooden splinters burying themselves deep into the sensitive skin inside his mouth. 

The emaciated beast had seemed like an image taken right from his worst childhood nightmares, and both its impressive size and the dark aura that clung to it like a second skin told Legolas that he was not facing a wolf, but a warg, who had probably come here from as far south as Dol Guldur in his search for food. 

Before Legolas had been able to recover from his fright and surprise, the warg had lashed out with one mighty paw, his claws cutting through the tunic and into the elf's skin, hurling him forcefully to the ground. The dazed young elf barely had time to register the pain before the warg was over him, drawn by the irresistible smell of blood. 

Pressing his prey down into the snow with one paw, the warg licked over the deep gashes he had caused, tasting the elf's blood. A mere instant later, the beast's teeth sank into the elf's skin, preparing to bite down hard. Brought back to full awareness by the sudden flaring pain, Legolas gasped and instinctively smashed the part of the bow he was still holding against the warg's head. The ragged end where the bow had broken pierced the creature's skin and made it throw its head back with a yelp.

The mighty head swivelled around, and eyes darkened from rage and hunger stared down into the elf's face. Legolas stared back, hurting too much to be frightened, holding the broken bow tightly with both hands. When the warg's fangs parted and his head came down aiming for the elf's throat, Legolas rammed the pointed end of the broken bow right into the beast's gaping mouth. 

The wolf gave an ear-splitting yowl and jumped back, shaking his head wildly to escape the excruciating pain. The piece of wood that had once been a bow fell to the ground, but the damage was already done and the warg began rolling on the ground whimpering, trying in vain to rid himself of the additional painful splinters in his mouth with his paws and rubbing his head against the frozen ground.

Legolas' head had dropped back into the snow and he had simply lain there for a moment, frozen with shock and pain, but finally his survival instincts and training began screaming at him, and he forced his fingers to close around the hilt of his knife. He knew it was not over yet - the warg was still alive and would come back. Somehow the young elf had managed to fight his way back to his knees, and when the warg finally ceased his useless efforts and rose with a snarl to end what he had begun, Legolas was ready for him.

Beast and elf watched each other for a long moment, blood dripping from the warg's fangs into the churned up snow, while the torn tunic around the elf's wounds slowly turned from forest green into a dark scarlet. Finally the warg had come forward, snarling and exposing his long yellow fangs. Legolas had thrown himself down, landing on his uninjured side and burying his flashing blade in the warg's left foreleg in one fluid move. 

He had not been able to cut any sinews before the large wolf jumped back with a howl, but obviously the pain from the additional injury had been too much for the beast. The warg took flight, limping noticeably and leaving a trail of scattered drops of blood on the white snow. After he was sure that he had managed to drive the beast off for a while, if not away, Legolas had wrapped his wounds with strips from his cloak as best he could with his shaking hands. Only then had he realized that he had not even thought of taking medical supplies with him.

Legolas could still only shake his head at his own carelessness. He would probably not even know of the warg's existence if he had only stayed safely in the trees. And how could he have left Imrath-e-Thynd-Nuir without even wasting one thought on how he would survive out here with only a handful of provisions? After years of training he was still nothing but a complete failure - he had not even managed to kill a half-starved warg. 

A movement at the edge of his vision tore him from his thoughts and when he turned his head Legolas saw that the warg had drawn close to him again, moving between the trees to his left. Instinctively, the elf's hand moved back to the knife in his belt. 

TBC

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_Note : For the sake of this story, I've decided that Mirkwood spiders don't hibernate. If Tolkien ever mentioned anything to the contrary, feel free to tell me. ;-)_


	2. Predator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hurt and confused, a young elf runs away from home after a series of troubling events, not knowing that deadly danger awaits him Characters: Legolas, Thranduil, OC.

The world around them was grey now, and the shadows had lengthened, but Legolas' elven eyes had no problem seeing clearly and he could smell the warg's blood and the pungent odour of its fur. 

The creature was limping, but its leg did not bleed freely anymore. The beast was slowly moving ahead of the elf, only to fall back behind him again, all the while casting furtive glances at its intended prey. Legolas' heart began to beat faster, and he had to fight hard to hide his fear. His breathing seemed to be far too loud to his ears. 

He was no stranger to death and blood, as no elf living in such times as these could be, but he did not want to die, not here in this dark place, nor at all, and he was afraid of the pain the fangs and claws of the large creature could cause him. He suddenly did not know how any warrior could ever face the thought of dying slowly and cruelly at the hands of a merciless foe, without anyone ever learning of his fate. 

Legolas had not had such thoughts during the battle some days before, but then he had simply been thrown into the fight, and he had not been alone, or wounded. It only seemed to prove to him once again that he was not suited to being a warrior. Apart from all his other faults, he also seemed to lack the courage that everyone else had. At that moment he wished desperately that he could be more like his father. 

Why did he have to keep disappointing both his father and all the elves in his realm, even if no one was even here to witness his failure? He clung to the thoughts of his father, ignoring the voice that told him that Thranduil probably did not even want him as a son anymore, and tried to draw strength from his memories. He could not imagine Thranduil being afraid, or facing a foe in any other way but fearlessly. 

Squaring his shoulders, Legolas forced himself to face the warg, keeping his eyes on the creature without looking away for a single moment, hoping that the beast was not able to smell his fear. After ignoring him for a while, the warg suddenly turned his bulky head and stared back. Legolas could see evil intelligence in those dark eyes, and he could almost feel the thoughts of the creature resting on him, planning, brooding... 

He knew that wargs were much more intelligent than mere wolves, but at that moment he wondered how intelligent the beast in front of him truly was. To a certain degree, wargs were able to communicate with orcs and follow their orders, but were they also capable of planning on their own? Looking into those blood-shot, cunning eyes, Legolas began to believe that this one was. 

Suppressing a shudder, Legolas continued staring coldly at the beast. The warg's piercing gaze had turned almost thoughtful and Legolas felt that he was assessing him, weighing him, trying to find out how dangerous an attack might still be. The young elf did his best to keep his face expressionless, simply staring back at his foe. The warg turned his snout into the wind, sniffing the air, and then, finally, he broke eye contact, staring ahead again. 

A short time later, the warg slowed down until he had fallen behind once more, changing his direction until he vanished somewhere between the trees. Legolas followed the warg with his eyes until he was out of sight. For a while the elf remained tense, not sure whether he could trust the peace, but he could not feel any danger approaching and finally he breathed a soft sigh of relief, relaxing a bit. 

Obviously the warg had decided that his prey was not ready for the kill yet, but Legolas doubted that this would happen a second time. The warg, too, was weakening. The next time the beast drew close to him again, it would attack. Now that the tension from the last moments was fading, the young elf felt more tired than ever before in his life. He knew he must neither rest nor stumble, but the simple act of moving was becoming more and more difficult. 

The wounds in his side throbbed and burned and sent waves of fiery pain through his body with each step and he was feeling increasingly dizzy. He could only hope that the blood had finally stopped flowing, but he knew that he had lost too much of it already. The wounds were too deep to heal on their own, and the strain of the continuous movement did not help at all. Legolas had tried to use some snow to clean the deep gashes, but he had not been able to do much good before he threatened to pass out from the pain. Being an elf, he was at least not likely to suffer from infection.

Fleetingly Legolas wondered if it would not have been wiser to goad the warg into an attack as long as he still had some strength left and his fingers were not too numb to hold a knife. He had wrapped two more strips from his cloak around his hands to keep them as warm and movable as possible, but he knew he could not fight his growing weakness and the merciless cold with his thin clothes and fading body warmth for long.

Even if he killed the warg, he would very likely die soon afterwards, either from the cold or from his wounds. Still, Legolas preferred either to being torn to pieces by the warg's fangs, and if he reached his destination and managed to win the fight he would at least have a chance of surviving a bit longer. 

Scanning his surroundings, the young elf realized that he would not have far to go now. It was still snowing lightly, but not enough to obscure his sight. In spite of the cold, Legolas found that he was grateful for the snow. The night would be long, but at least it would not be very dark. He had always had problems adapting to the long nights and the bare trees in winter.

When he was still a child and had longed for the sun and the sparkling green and the colours of springtime during the grey days and long nights, his mother would smile at him understandingly and tell him that the winter was not a good time for a green leaf. Being a Silvan elf, she had always understood when his mood changed with the seasons, or even with the weather. 

Thranduil had often shaken his head at the quicksilvery moods of both his wife and his son, but he had always indulged them. Legolas shoved those thoughts aside forcefully, a lump forming in his throat. Memories of his family were the last thing he wanted to think about right now. His mother was dead, and his father... his father was lost to him as well. 

It was hard not to think of his family today of all days, and not only because of what had happened and was still going to happen. This night would be the longest night in the year, sometimes the only night in winter that Legolas truly loved. This special night was meant to be spent with family and friends, and it was a time for song and celebration. 

From tomorrow on, the days would grow longer and the light would gain strength again, driving the darkness and the twilight away. It was a symbol of hope that seemed to be nothing but cruel mockery in his current situation and Legolas found that thinking about the meaning of this night and remembering previous years only made him feel even more miserable. Never before had he been alone on this special night. 

Right now, the night appeared to be endless. As if in answer to his thoughts, Legolas felt the by now almost familiar sensation of hungry eyes boring into his back. He stiffened, knowing instinctively that the warg had finally made his decision. 

\----------

All thoughts of winter solstice, family, and emotional pain instantly vanished from the elf's mind and his eyes searched his surroundings frantically. They alighted on a familiar outline, partly hidden between the trees to his right, and Legolas realized that he had finally found what he was looking for. 

When he had been on the way with the patrol, they had rested in the trees only a short distance away from this place. Back then, Legolas had discovered a small cave in the incline right next to a frozen brook when it was his turn to keep watch. It was a sheltered and hidden place, and Legolas had only looked into it to see whether there was any creature hiding in there. 

The cave had been empty, and as elves were usually not in need of hiding places on the ground, nor too fond of caves, Legolas had soon lost all interest in it. Now it could save him - or perhaps at least prolong his life for a while. The elf still carried his quiver and all his arrows with him, not because he had still use for them as weapons, but because he would need every bit of firewood he could get his hands on. 

It hurt to even think of using them that way, but he had no choice. Both his broken bow and the arrows had been gifted to him by his father as soon as Legolas' considerable skill for archery had become apparent. What had happened to the bow and would happen to the arrows seemed to be a fitting symbol for their broken relationship. 

If Legolas would still be able to use the arrows for anything at all. The young elf could only hope that the warg would take his time in catching up to him, as he had done before. Legolas had never been sure if the warg was walking slowly because he was in pain from the wound to his leg, or because he felt some kind of irresistible urge to play with his prey before the kill. 

The elf did not dare to look back, keeping his eyes on the vaulted elevation in the snow that marked the location of the cave, and walking steadily onwards. The gaze of the beast was fixed on him now, and Legolas could feel it drawing nearer. Being watched like that caused a tingling sensation in his neck, and he began shivering again, though he was not sure whether it was from the cold or the fear. 

If he managed to get inside the cave before the warg reached him, he would have a much better chance of defending himself. The beast would have to come and get him then, and it would only be able to come from one direction. The only problem was that he had to keep the warg from guessing his plan. 

As the beast was a stranger to this part of the forest, Legolas felt fairly sure that it did not know about the existence of the cave. He decided that he would have to climb up the incline and get to the cave's entrance from behind. Hopefully the warg would follow him and not even notice that there was a cave or what he was up to until it was too late. 

Legolas spotted patches of bluish ice jutting out of the snow and realized that he had reached the brook. Quickly he crossed it and began to climb up the incline on its other side, concentrating hard to neither slip nor slow down, and soon panting from the exertion. Reaching the top, his foot caught on a branch that lay partly hidden by the snow, and he stumbled, falling to his knees. Using his hands to support himself, he remained kneeling in the snow for one moment longer, trying to catch his breath. 

Strangely detached, he noticed that the branch had torn through his leggings and cut into the skin of one knee, causing drops of blood to fall into the snow before him. He barely felt the pain, nor the bite of the cold snow on his skin. Realizing that the cold was beginning to get to him, Legolas forced himself to shake free from his stupor and fight his way back to his feet. In a sudden bout of panic, he could not help turning his head and looking back.

The warg was moving towards him at a slow trot, his gleaming eyes fixed on his prey, the fur around his mouth caked with blood. His jaws hung slightly open, showing his fangs and part of his tongue. The ribs and bones of the beast showed clearly through the skin and his wounded left foreleg seemed to be stiff, making him walk in a strange, limping gait. It was an even more gruesome sight than the first time he had seen it, looking very much like something dead and buried come alive again.

In spite of Legolas' fall, the warg made no move to hasten his pace, simply trotting on patiently, obviously aware that his prey could not escape. Legolas turned away, unable to bear the sight any longer and knowing that he could not afford to be mesmerized by his fear right now. He had to suppress the urge to start running, knowing that the warg's predatory instincts would immediately drive him to chase him down and that the beast was still able to run much faster than he could. 

He walked on only a bit faster than before, following the edge of the incline until the vaulted elevation that marked part of the cave's ceiling was right beneath him, then he began to scramble down the incline on the side of the cave that was farthest from the warg, hidden from the beast's sight for a few precious moments. Unable to keep his balance and driven by his own urgency, Legolas soon began to slide down the incline rather than climb down, ending up on all fours right beside the cave entrance. 

For one moment the young elf felt nothing but relief, though his knees and hands hurt and were scraped from landing rather forcefully on the frozen, rocky ground. He had made it. Against all odds he had found the cave and made it to the entrance. He straightened a bit, but before he could begin to rise from his kneeling position, he heard a sound: the crunching of frozen snow as something pressed down on it.

Raising his head so quickly that his neck almost cramped, Legolas looked directly into the dark, glittering eyes of the warg, which was no more than two yards away from his kneeling prey. The elf froze. The creature had not followed him up the incline, but had apparently chosen to take the easier route along the frozen brook, watching its prey from below. Once again Legolas felt the bitter taste of failure, but he had no time to dwell on it.

This time, the warg did not hesitate. Howling triumphantly, he used the remaining strength of his bony hind legs to catapult himself forward, his fangs opening wide to burrow into the flesh of his prey. Legolas reacted without thinking. He dropped to the ground and rolled into the cave, out of the way of the predator's fangs and claws. One of the warg's legs brushed fleetingly against his back without doing any damage. 

The movement and the pressure it put on his wounds made Legolas feel as if a glowing red dagger was driven deep into his side, and he moaned when he came to rest somewhere inside the cave. Darkness encroached on him, and he fought desperately to cling to consciousness. An angry snarl finally helped to drive the haze from his mind, and he somehow managed to get first on his elbows and then on his knees.

The large shadow of the warg appeared in the entrance of the cave and Legolas could feel both his hatred and ravenous hunger. The elf's hand went to his belt... and found only empty air. Somewhere between here and his slide down the incline, he had lost his knife. Looking out of the cave past the flank of the beast, Legolas spotted the shining blade only inches away from one of the warg's hind paws. It could as well have been on the other side of the world. 

The young elf stared at the warg, trying to fight down the rising panic and think. The creature bared its teeth, but made no sound, and to Legolas it seemed as if it was smirking. There was glee in the eyes of the beast as it slowly entered the cave and it raised its head slightly, smelling both the fear and the fresh blood from the reopened wounds of its prey, and being drawn to it. 

The elf crawled backwards, not bothering to waste any time by trying to rise again. Soon his shoulders hit the wall behind him, and there was nowhere else to go. The cave that should have been a shelter was nothing but a trap now. Legolas stared at the approaching beast, thoughts chasing each other desperately in his head. Something pressed almost painfully against his back, and suddenly he remembered the quiver. 

Quickly he reached back and drew two arrows out of the quiver, taking one in each hand. Realizing that his prey might still have a sting left, the warg snarled and covered the rest of the distance between them with a jump. Legolas tried to bring one arrow down on the creature's face, but the warg quickly caught it and crushed it between his teeth. 

The elf managed to push the other arrow into the beast's shoulder, but he had barely succeeded in driving it through the thick hide when the warg already spun around and the arrow was torn out of the elf's fingers. Legolas could do no more than raise his arms in a last, desperate effort to defend himself, and then the warg was upon him. 

The young elf experienced a moment of intense fear when he stared right into the glowing eyes of the predator and saw the widely-opened fangs prepare to burrow into his arm with bone-breaking force. Legolas quickly turned his head away and closed his eyes tightly, unable to bear watching any longer and hoping that it would be over soon. 

Regret washed over him, and suddenly he could think of nothing else but his father, wishing that he could tell him how terribly sorry he was and that he had never intended to cause him such pain. The warg gave a piercing howl that ended abruptly and Legolas could hear sharp claws scratching over the rocky ground. There was a touch of foul, warm breath on his face, and the young elf tensed; one instant later the entire weight of the warg came crashing down on him, burying him beneath it.

TBC 

#    



	3. The Longest Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hurt and confused, a young elf runs away from home after a series of troubling events, not knowing that deadly danger awaits him Characters: Legolas, Thranduil, OC.

Legolas lay there unmoving for a long moment, barely daring to breathe, waiting for the pain of sharp teeth sinking into his skin. Slowly he realized that he was still alive and that the pain had not come, though the warg had been about to take his prey. Shaken and confused, the elf opened his eyes. He immediately recognized the grey shape that was pressing down on him, trapping him between it and the rocky ground. 

The warg did not move, nor even twitch, and Legolas smelled the unmistakable, metallic odour of blood. Getting bolder, the elf tried to raise his head a little, and then he saw a sword that was buried almost to the hilt in the warg's neck, the blade still vibrating from the force of the blow. Legolas stared at it. He knew that sword. He let his head fall back to the ground with a gentle thud, not even feeling the pain in his hurting and worn-out body for the moment. 

Suddenly the weight on him began to shift and the elf froze, fearing for one moment that the warg was moving, until he realized that someone was partly lifting, partly dragging the heavy body away from him. Raising his head once more, Legolas caught sight of a tall elf with golden hair and noble features who was pulling at the bulky carcass, the beautifully-crafted sword back in its sheath at his side. 

The sight was painfully familiar and Legolas kept staring at the other elf in spite of the strain his awkward position put on the muscles in his neck, not really able to believe his eyes. The King of the Woodland Realm wore the brown-black hunting clothes that every wood-elf preferred when he had to go out into the forest in winter, and his long hair was held back by simple warrior braids that told nothing of his royal status. 

Legolas' gaze fixed on the other elf's face. He had never seen his father look so pale before. The carcass began to slide off from him, and the young elf bit back a moan when some part of the warg brushed against his injured side. Ignoring the pain as well as he was able to, Legolas struggled into a sitting position, slumping against the wall, his eyes never leaving his father's face. At the slight sound from his movement Thranduil turned his head, and their eyes met. 

The king's gaze was intense, searching, but before Legolas could read anything further in it, a shadow fell over him and someone knelt down at his side a bit awkwardly, blocking his view. The young elf did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed. He wanted to see his father's reaction just as much as he feared it. Instead he found himself looking into inquiring grey eyes framed by long silver hair, a sight that had become very familiar whenever he was wounded. 

Legolas would not even have needed to see the face to know who had joined him. There was only one elf in the entire Woodland Realm who had problems kneeling down and walked with a limp. The young elf began to believe that he was dreaming. How could Nestadren and Thranduil be here? And why should both his father and the head healer of Imrath-e-Thynd-Nuir risk their lives following him when he had done nothing but disappoint them, disobey orders, and be the cause for devastating grief?

Feeling dazed and confused, Legolas let his gaze wander to the dead warg and back again to the elf at his side. "How... why did you-" he stammered, not really sure what he wanted to say and hoping that Nestadren would understand him anyway.

The healer smiled at him. "I may not be able to walk as elegantly as I once did, but I am still quite capable of following a trail," he said, his eyes already travelling over the young elf's body, searching for injuries and gauging their severity.

Legolas had no problems believing him, though that did not really answer all of his question. Nestadren was one of the oldest Sindarin elves in the Woodland Realm and had been a warrior much longer than Legolas had been alive. He had served his family for generations. Long before Thranduil became king, Nestadren had been one of the warriors in Oropher's personal guard, until the battle of Dagorlad, where his king fell and he was severely wounded. Nestadren survived, but he almost lost one leg and the damage done to joints and tissues by both a vicious blow and a fell poison was too extensive to ever heal completely. 

Since then he walked with a limp. Unlike every other elf in Nestadren's situation that Legolas knew or had heard of, he decided to stay instead of sail. He followed Thranduil to Mirkwood, decided that his time as a warrior was over and became a healer instead. Though Legolas had never seen the healer venture into the forest before, he was well aware that Nestadren had not forgotten any of his old abilities.

"That looks bad," the healer said softly, his concerned eyes resting on the soaked-through makeshift bandage on Legolas' side. "The warg bit you?"

Legolas nodded weakly. He was almost too tired now to keep his eyes open, and cold to the bone. He began shivering without being able to stop it and watched Nestadren taking off his own cloak and wrapping it around his shoulders. 

"I need a fire in here!" the healer spoke over his shoulder, then he drew a knife and began to carefully cut through the makeshift bandage around the younger elf's waist. 

The cold had dulled the pain slightly, but Legolas still flinched when Nestadren removed the part of the fabric that clung to his wounds. A sudden shock of cold on the hot skin around his wounds brought him back to full awareness for a moment, as the healer used snow to clean the gashes, just as he himself had tried to do. 

When Nestadren started treating the wounds, Legolas passed out, too weakened by all he had been through already to be able to bear any more pain.

\----------

When Legolas regained consciousness he was lying on the floor of the cave, looking up at the rocky ceiling not too far above him. The pain had lessened and the numbness was gone from his limbs. He could feel the light, welcome weight of a blanket on him and the warmth of a crackling fire on his left side. 

Noticing that someone was holding his hand, he turned his head and saw that Nestadren was putting a light bandage on one of his scraped hands. Obviously the healer was still not done treating him, so Legolas concluded that he could not have been unconscious for too long. 

Feeling his gaze, Nestadren looked down at him and smiled. "Welcome back," he greeted his young patient. 

There was still concern in his eyes, but considerably less than the last time Legolas had seen him. The warmth was pleasant and the young elf wished that he could simply close his eyes and sleep for a week. He had not felt so safe for a seemingly endless long time. Nonetheless, there were memories that were far from pleasant and Legolas knew that there would be no running away now. 

Legolas looked at the older elf for a long moment, wondering if there really was no condemnation in those ageless eyes, or if Nestadren was simply hiding it well. There were few who could read the healer's emotions or guess at his mood when he chose not to show them, Thranduil being among them. Becoming aware that Nestadren was still holding his hand, Legolas noticed that the sleeve of the tunic that covered his arm and part of his bandaged hand seemed to have changed colour and also grown in size.

He did not have to ask to know that he was wearing one of his father's tunics now instead of his own torn and bloodied one. Thranduil was broader than his son and a bit taller - his clothes had always been slightly too big for Legolas. The young elf blinked back tears, wishing that he could make everything undone that had happened over these last weeks. 

"It has not all simply been a bad dream, has it?" he asked quietly.

Nestadren gently put the younger elf's arm down on the ground beside him and released it. Looking at the healer Legolas could see that his silence had begun to worry the older elf. 

"I am not sure whether you refer to the warg or to everything that happened before that, but I am afraid it was no dream," Nestadren answered finally. 

He scrutinized the young elf's face a moment longer. Nestadren had lost nearly everyone he had cared for or sworn to protect in the great battle so many years past that had also almost cost him his leg, but when he looked in the face of this youth who had not even been born back then, or at the face of the king whom he had known and loved when he still was a prince and only a child, he knew why he had stayed and that his decision had been right. 

Right now Legolas needed something that he could not give and having watched the events of the last weeks unfold, he had a good idea what that something was. Fleetingly he wondered whether all of Oropher's descendents would become as stubborn as he was. 

"I need to leave you for a moment, Legolas," he said to the still rather worn-out looking prince in front of him. "The cadaver of the warg has to be burnt. I do not think the trees would appreciate it if we left it here to rot. I will be back shortly."

Legolas nodded in understanding, and Nestadren rose, leaving the cave quickly and soundlessly like a shadow, his slight limp almost invisible in the dim light. When he was gone, Legolas carefully rolled on his uninjured side and sat up slowly, wincing as the wounds in his side protested strongly against the movement. Leaning against the cave wall, the young elf drew the blanket tightly around him and stared into the dancing flames in front of him. 

Much earlier than he had expected, Legolas heard a slight sound behind him and when he turned his head to greet Nestadren and tell him unmistakably that he would not lie down again he found himself looking right into his father's face. For an instant, the young elf froze. Thranduil did not move, either. He simply stood there for some moments, watching his son. 

Legolas could not look away from his father's face, though he still felt a lot of trepidation, and this time he recognized the emotion he saw there: relief. Before the young elf was able to think further about it, Thranduil came towards him, kneeling down by his side, and a moment later Legolas found himself wrapped in a careful, but tight embrace. 

Legolas tensed involuntarily for an instant, but then he hugged his father back and clung to him for all he was worth. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry!" He felt tears sting his eyes, but once again he blinked them back angrily. 

"You should be!" Thranduil answered, his voice hoarse. "I have never been so scared before." 

Not really hearing the second part of his father's words, Legolas went on, his voice sounding more and more desperate, "I know it was all my fault. You were right all along. I did not want anything like that to happen! I'm so sorry."

Thranduil frowned, not really able to understand the connection between Legolas' words and what they were talking about. "What?" he asked, gently gripping his son's shoulders and moving back a little so he could look into Legolas' face. 

The young elf kept his eyes downcast, refusing to meet his father's gaze. To his mortification, tears began to spill out of his eyes, and he cursed himself for being too weak to stop them. "I know it cannot be undone," he said, his voice wavering slightly. "I know what happened is unforgivable. I just want you to know... that I am aware of the consequences of my actions."

"Legolas, what are you talking about?" Thranduil wanted to know, both mystified and increasingly worried. He put a hand under his son's chin, trying to encourage him to look up, but Legolas turned his head away, staring at the ground at his side.

"I cannot blame you if I have lost your love," the young elf continued resignedly. "And I understand if I have to be punished."

"Legolas, you have never lost my love!" Thranduil said with emphasis, feeling increasingly confused and frustrated. "And why should I ever want to punish you? For running away and almost getting yourself killed? I would say that is punishment enough for anyone!"

Legolas balled his hands into fists, resting them in his lap and staring down at them. He did not think he could bear this much longer. Why could his father not simply understand what he was talking about? "I killed them," he whispered. "Their death is my fault and you know it. If I had obeyed-" He tried to suppress a sob, but did not succeed entirely, breaking off with a choked sound. 

For a moment, there was a shocked silence between them. Then Thranduil leaned forward slightly, gripping his son's chin firmly with one hand. "Legolas, look at me," he commanded.

Legolas looked up reluctantly, his eyes quickly filling with tears once more. 

"You believe that the death of the warriors on that patrol was your fault?" Thranduil asked, and the young elf nodded.

"And you believe that I hate you because of it, or at least do not love you anymore?"

Once again, Legolas nodded. Thranduil fell silent, speechless. He felt wetness on his fingers from the tears that were running down Legolas' cheeks. "Whoever told you something like that?" he asked, a hint of anger in his voice.

"No one did," Legolas answered almost defiantly. "No one had to."

Thranduil shook his head as if trying to clear his thoughts, releasing his son's chin. "Legolas, Hebion came back and spoke to me after you had left. He was worried about you. He told me that without you, even more members of the patrol might have fallen."

Legolas blinked. "That... cannot be true," he said uncertainly.

Thranduil raised an eyebrow. "Do you wish to imply that he was lying at me?"

The young elf looked at him helplessly. "N-no," he said. "But they had to look out for me - I was completely inexperienced!"

"Well, the captain told me that you handled yourself very well, taking your cues from him and the other members of the patrol and never being in anyone's way. He said you you behaved like someone who has been in fights before." There was a strange mixture of hidden pride and sorrow in Thranduil's voice now. 

Legolas stared at him like someone who had just lost the ground under his feet. 

"He apologized to me for not taking better care of you," the king added. "He said that he only realized back at Imrath-e-Thynd-Nuir, after he had had some time to think, how it must have been for you to be confronted with so many deaths for the first time."

Legolas still stared at him, looking confused. "But... you were so angry," he said with a small voice.

Thranduil sighed. "I was angry," he admitted. "I was angry at you for scaring me like that and it only got worse after hearing what had happened on that patrol. I am sorry that I did not talk to you right away. But I was angry and shaken, and I knew you did not need that on top of everything you had been through already. Then I had to visit the relatives of the warriors and tell them of the deaths." 

He closed his eyes. "It could just as well have been you, Legolas. It could have been you who had fallen. Afterwards, the captain came to talk to me, and when we were done it was so late that I was hesitant to disturb you. I was quite sure that you had already fallen asleep, tired as you were. I stood in front of your door for quite some time, but then I decided to come back early the next morning - and that is what I did." 

"And I scared you again," Legolas said, looking miserable. 

"Yes you did," Thranduil answered, and Legolas could read the truth in his eyes. "Thoroughly. Especially when we found blood in the snow and the trail of a warg right next to yours."

Legolas looked down at his hands again for a moment, trying to come to terms with what he had heard. Finally, he raised his head, meeting his father's gaze. "It was not my fault?" he asked hesitantly.

"No, it was not," Thranduil answered, his heart aching at the pain he still read in his son's eyes. 

"And you... you still love me?"

Thranduil smiled at him. "You could never do anything that would make me stop loving you, pen-neth," he answered, both sadness and warmth in his eyes.

"I am not little anymore," Legolas whispered automatically, tears spilling over again. 

Thranduil drew him close once more, and Legolas broke down sobbing in his arms, as the accumulated heartache of long and lonely days forced its way out. "You will always be little to me," Thranduil contradicted gently, and Legolas buried his head on his father's shoulder, while the king held him and simply let him cry. 

\----------

Some time later, when the tears had finally stopped, Thranduil watched his son staring thoughtfully into the flames of their little fire, much the way he had found him before, except for the red-rimmed eyes. 

"There is something else on your mind, is there not?" he asked, not willing to tolerate any more misunderstanding between them after all they had suffered because of it - and Legolas in particular.

Legolas hesitated, but then he turned his head and looked at his father. "Yes there is," he confessed. "You never wanted me to go out on a patrol, in fact you did everything to prevent it. Why?"

Thranduil did not say anything for a moment, searching his son's face. "What did you think was the reason?" he asked then, not really sure if he wanted to hear it but knowing he had to. 

"I thought-" Legolas began and broke off. "I think now that this is probably not true, but I thought you doubted my abilities and did not want me to go because of it. You never wanted to explain your decision to me, so I believed it had to be something you did not want me to know."

A snort came from the background somewhere on the other side of the cave, and Legolas blinked. He had never noticed Nestadren's return, but then, that was not unusual. 

Thranduil felt an 'I-told-you-so' gaze boring holes into his back, and he stiffened slightly. He was quite sure that he and Nestadren would have a long discussion after all this was over, and he was not looking forward to it. The healer had indeed warned him that something was seriously amiss, but Thranduil had not wanted to listen, hoping that Legolas would simply follow his orders. 

Nestadren always had had that annoying habit of spotting warning signs before anyone else was able to see them and he never had been shy about voicing his opinion. Emphatically. Right now, Thranduil honestly wished he had listened, though he did not plan on admitting it to the healer if he could help it. 

He took both of Legolas' bandaged hands into his own and held them. "I never doubted your abilities," he said, looking directly into his son's eyes. "I did not want you to go on a patrol because I was afraid... because I was afraid of losing you." To talk about this was just as difficult as he had feared it would be, but he knew he could not avoid it any longer. It was necessary for Legolas to understand. 

"Afraid of losing me?" Legolas echoed, surprised. 

Thranduil saw a hint of relief in his son's eyes and knew he had been right in telling him. "Actually there are two reasons why I did not want you to go," he went on. "The first reason is that I am your father and you are my only son, and I was afraid of losing you like I lost your mother. I would not be able to bear that." He looked into Legolas' eyes until he was sure that the young elf understood exactly what he meant by that.

"The second reason is that you are not only my son, but also the prince of this realm, my only heir. If you should fall and my heart should break from grief... there will be no one left to lead our people in their fight against the darkness."

He gave Legolas a few moments to think about that, then he added, "I know it was wrong. I know I have to let you go some time. But I want you to be as strong and prepared as you can be. The fight you were in has probably shown you how quickly and suddenly even an immortal life can be claimed by death."

Legolas nodded, and the expression in his son's eyes when he mentioned the fight made Thranduil decide that they would have a conversation about that and all that had happened in those last days very soon, though it would not be tonight. He was quite aware that Legolas was weakened by his wounds, still in some pain, and very tired, even though the young elf tried his best to hide it. For a moment Thranduil found himself wondering if all sons were as stubborn as this one was.

"I understand," Legolas said, interrupting his thoughts. The young elf smiled at his father softly. "Thank you for telling me."

Thranduil could read in his son's eyes that Legolas was well aware of how much it had cost him to talk about his fears. "I should have done so sooner," the king answered, almost expecting another snort from the background, but it never came. He released his son's hands.

Without a word, Nestadren came forward, carrying some blankets, provisions, and more firewood, and set everything down right beside the fire. Legolas looked at the firewood, thinking of his arrows and feeling very grateful that they never had had to be used like that. Only now he realized how close he had come to dying today without ever learning that the reason for all the painful events of the last days had been nothing more than a simple misunderstanding.

He would have died believing that his father did not love him anymore. He shivered. It would have been worse than death itself, and he would never forget the lesson he had learned. Legolas was quite sure that he would never fall into doubt about himself or his father so easily again. He raised his head and smiled warmly at the two older elves. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you for coming in time."

\----------

A short time later, after they had eaten and Nestadren had given Legolas some herbs to drink to dull the pain, they all sat together close at the back wall of the cave, right next to the fire. Legolas was leaning against his father's chest, wrapped into a blanket and in the king's arms, needing both the warmth and the comfort. 

The long hours he had spent with only the warg and his own agonizing thoughts as company were still far too close for his liking. He remembered the hungry eyes of the creature and suppressed a shudder. Thranduil felt it nonetheless. 

"Are you well?" he asked softly.

Legolas nodded against his shoulder. "I was only thinking about the warg," he murmured. "He really scared me. Does that make me a coward?"

Nestadren laughed softly at his side. "That only shows that you are not a fool, child," he said, ignoring Legolas' half-hearted glare at that form of address. "That one was big, even for a warg, and I have seen far too many of them in my life. The big ones are usually the most dangerous and intelligent of all of them. The warg that was after you was probably a pack leader - I think it likely that he killed the last survivors from his own pack to keep from starving. There is no shame in being afraid of a beast as cruel and dangerous as that."

"I see," Legolas said, mulling over the older elf's words. "I am glad that he is dead."

Thranduil and Nestadren exchanged a look of mutual understanding over the younger elf's head. They both had gotten the scare of their life today, and burning the warg had been just as satisfying for the healer as killing it had been for the king. 

No one said a word for a long time afterwards, and the silence around them deepened. Only the soft crackling sounds of the fire could be heard, and Legolas was watching the swirling snowflakes outside. He was feeling relaxed and sleepy, and very much at peace. It was not a winter solstice as he had imagined it to be, but the magic of this special night was back and he felt as if he could almost touch it. 

In a way, this night had been closer to the spirit of winter solstice than any he had ever lived through before. Hope had truly destroyed his very own darkness tonight. He smiled, becoming aware that his family was here with him tonight, and grateful for the love he could both give and receive. At some point, Nestadren began to sing, and his clear, beautiful voice finally lulled the young elf to sleep.

Outside, the warm red glow of the fire was reflected in silvery snowdrifts, and the snowflakes kept swirling and dancing throughout the rest of the long night. 

\- The End -


End file.
